


George Oscar Bluth and the Twelve Step Guide

by perfchan



Category: Arrested Development
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Humor, M/M, blunder if you squint, don't worry about where it falls in the canon timeline, gob centric, that being said it's before season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-07-03 16:06:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15822321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfchan/pseuds/perfchan
Summary: “You’re not going anywhere with that hound!” Gob snaps out of his reverie, pushing past Michael to stand closer to the dog in question. “That hound is instrumental in my next illusion!”Michael’s mouth works fruitlessly at a response. After a moment, he tries to clarify: “Gob. You want to take the dog?”“Hound.” Gob corrects.*In which Gob unwittingly adopts a dog (hound) and nothing goes as planned.





	George Oscar Bluth and the Twelve Step Guide

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pk4n](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pk4n/gifts).



 

***

 

Gob wakes up abruptly---whether this is from natural causes or the dwindling half-life of the previous night’s chemical lullaby is indeterminate. He’s always been a heavy sleeper, so he can’t blame the rise and fall of the conversation (read: heated argument) drifting in from the kitchen of the model home for his awakening. Regardless, this new conscious state leaves his mind in a sort of pounding, fuzzy disarray. It is with heavy limbs that he makes his way over to the bar cart for an eye-opener. 

 

“Well. I don’t know what you were thinking!” Michael states. His voice has taken on that half demanding, half needling tone that he uses when the family is being especially trying. His default cadence. 

 

Lindsay isn’t impressed. She crosses her legs, shifting slightly forward in her chair. “I was thinking,” she punctuates the words with an impatient press of her hand on the kitchen counter, “about your son. Poor George Michael!” 

 

“ _ Poor George Michael _ !” Michael mocks. “Listen. My  _ son  _ does not need---” 

 

“Wow, Michael,” Gob interrupts, shuffling into the kitchen, glass in hand. Not a drop of liquid sloshes out, though this is due more to years of muscle memory than any actual effort on his part. “Sounds like you’ve really screwed up this time.” He grins at Lindsay, who rolls her eyes at his collusion rather than appreciates it. 

 

“Gob.” Michael levels him with an unimpressed stare. “You don’t even know what we’re talking about.” 

 

“Course I do,” Gob retaliates, leaning backward on the counter. He motions with his drink. “We’re talking about-”

 

“We’re talking about how much better George Michael is going to be, now that he has a healthy outlet! A loving companion!”

 

Gob snorts out a laugh. “No, really--”

 

“My son doesn’t need a loving companion! He has me!” Michael protests. 

 

Lindsay huffs in a breath, likely regrouping prior to her next verbal assault. 

 

Gob---who is not following this conversation at all, but is more than happy to weigh in all the same---sips his drink. He imagines he looks the part of the sage older brother, ready to give some well placed advice and tough love. (This is not the case. He looks like a mess--his hair is sticking up on one side from being passed out on a stray couch cushion. And the housecoat he’s wearing was lifted from Lucille’s closet, so it’s gold and pink, which is, incidentally, terrible with his complexion. And one of his slippers is missing, leaving his left foot bare.) All the same, he wisely nods his head, about to interrupt again, this time to offer an invaluable (read: entirely unrelated) anecdote when something catches his eye on the floor. 

 

It looks like a mop. Or rather, what he assumes a mop looks like. (Gob knows about things like mops and brooms and such in theory only, having never come into direct contact with such an apparatus himself.) He zeroes in on the misshapen pile, the ice clinking in his glass as he rocks forward to get a closer look. The pile moves, startling a shout out of Gob. “What the!”

 

“That’s what we’ve been talking about,” Michael says, exasperated at Gob’s outburst. 

 

“George Michael’s new therapy dog!” Lindsay exclaims, pleased. 

 

The moppish pile, which is not a pile at all, but actually a dog, lifts its head and blinks at the Bluth siblings once, twice, before collapsing again into a rakish heap. It heaves out one tired sigh of resignation. 

 

“If you ask me, the dog needs therapy more than George Michael,” Michael resumes his argument. 

 

“Then they’ll help each other!” Lindsay returns. “It’ll be like a lifetime movie, Michael! Two success stories for the price of one.” 

 

It was Lindsay who had brought the dog into the house in the first place. She met a man, who, in addition to having a charming smile and broad shoulders and a very nice butt, had a bit of a dog obsession. He had, like, five dogs, and worked at a no-kill shelter, and dog walked for fun, and so on and so forth. So when he asked her, “Do you have a dog?” her mind was lost in the dimple to the right of his smile and the thought of his ass in shorts at the dog park and replied, “Of course I have a dog.” 

 

Of course, she didn’t have a dog. So she got one. This one. And this mop dog is nothing like the trendy little purse dog she would have pictured herself with, if she ever pictured herself with a dog. But a dog’s a dog to the dog-man, and this dog may as well be the one to get the man. 

 

And then the man brought his husband with him to their first outing at the dog park. 

 

Having her fantasy relationship therefore snuffed out before it could even begin, Lindsay retreated to the model home, reluctantly bringing with her the useless animal. She was met with a tongue-tied George Michael. A plan began to form in her mind. (Not a very well thought out plan, but a plan nonetheless). George Michael was clearly in need of help. George Michael could benefit from a dog---all the kids have therapy dogs nowadays. Seizing her chance, she asked him a simple question, “Is there something on your mind?” 

 

She wasn’t planning on helping him herself, obviously, but what problem can’t be greatly improved with a nice dog? Or even this dog? And surely actual therapy dogs aren’t all that different from standard, non-therapy dogs. (If one is to judge them by the standards of human therapists, for example, Tobias, non-therapy dogs might be better anyways). 

 

George Michael, unknown to Lindsay, was suffering due to a problem of his own. Maeby had recently been paired with Lucas McClain, a popular, easy going guy, for a group project in their shared lit class. She seemed really happy about the arrangement, and with Lucas pulling her weight in the project---work that George Michael would have normally completed for her---he was feeling a little lonely. 

 

“I don’t know---I guess, I’m, I’m feeling a little lonely,” he responded to his aunt, surprised at her concern. 

 

“Perfect,” she beamed, handing him the dog’s leash. The dog was in his hands now. 

 

The dog took one look at George Michael, sighed, and laid down on the living room floor, a passive spectator to its own fate. Leaving it in peace, George Michael went upstairs to his room and tried not to think about how little of Maeby’s homework he had to do. 

 

His father returned home shortly thereafter, and started questioning Lindsay about their new houseguest. 

 

Back in the kitchen, Gob was formulating a plan of his own. Upon seeing the animal, Gob immediately recalled a recent routine of Tony Wonder’s in which his esteemed colleague had trained a small monkey to dance around the stage prior to him emerging out of a houseplant. He had even trained the monkey to form a tiny “W” with its tiny little hands. Needless to say, the act had made a deep impression on Gob, and he had since thought that an animal might be a very nice addition to his illusions indeed. 

 

(His less-than-successful history with animals in his act was of little concern). 

 

He is so deep in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice George Michael coming into the kitchen, ducking past his father to open the fridge. Gob stares at the heap of hair on the floor, mind reeling with possibilities. 

 

“How do you like your new dog, son?” Michael asks, cuffing George Michael’s shoulder. 

 

George Michael lowers the bottle of water from his lips, looking every bit a deer trapped in headlights. His other hand hovers awkwardly at his belt---not quite in his pocket---as he looks between his father and his aunt, trying to gauge the situation. He swallows and attempts a blithe response: “I don’t think---not sure the dog is going to work out.” 

 

That was the correct answer. Michael claps his hands. “Wonderful. No problem. I’ll just take ol’ Fido here back to---” 

 

“You’re not going anywhere with that hound!” Gob snaps out of his reverie, pushing past Michael to stand closer to the dog in question. “That hound is instrumental in my next illusion!” 

 

Michael’s mouth works fruitlessly at a response. After a moment, he tries to clarify: “Gob. You want to take the dog?” 

 

“Hound.” Gob corrects. 

 

“You can’t take care of an animal.” Michael states. He watches, unimpressed, as Lindsay takes this moment to not-so-subtly slink out of the room. “You can’t even take care of yourself.” 

 

“Ha! Can’t take care of---” Gob sets his brother straight with a finger wagging in his face. “As the oldest, I am perhaps the  _ most _ qualified out of all of us! I’m the most experienced---I’ve had pets! My illusions have involved any number of peerless beasts. Think of Buster! 

 

Michael’s eyebrows are raised, mouth pursed as he lets Gob conclude. “You know what. I’m not gonna fight this one. The dog--”

 

“Hound, Michael. A dog is something that plays fetch and shits in the yard. This is a hound.” 

 

“The hound,” Michael complies, eyes cast heavenward, with a slight shake of his head, “Is yours.” 

 

“Yes!” Gob cheers, scooping up the animal from the kitchen floor into his arms. It doesn’t put up much fuss, its four legs hanging limp as Gob cavorts out of the kitchen. “Suck it, George Michael!” 

 

And thus, Gob officially acquired a furry friend as his new magician’s assistant. 

 

Maeby, having been privy to the tail end of this conversation and perhaps taking pity on the poor creature (the dog, not Gob) thought to better arm its master and, in a fit of generosity, provided Gob with a book that was meant to provide some further insight into the care and keeping of a pet. 

 

(The book was, in fact, not a book, but rather a print out of a wiki-how article entitled ‘Twelve Steps for Adjusting to a New Pet.’ Gob, having as much experience with books as he does with dog training, failed to question Maeby when she informed him the three loose pages of computer paper were an advanced reader’s copy.)   

 

What Maeby does not realize, however, is just how stupid Gob actually is. 

 

**Part One: Creating a Space in Your Life for Someone New**

 

_ Step One: Take great care in selecting your new pet. With a little luck, and a lot of love, your new pet will be by your side for years to come! Therefore, you must consider.... _

 

Gob’s eyes start to glaze over. Any words beyond a headline that are not expressly related to him and/or concerning the latest hot topics in magic tend to make his eyelids heavy. 

 

_ Step Two: Preparing your home for your new… _

 

Gob sets the animal down. On second thought, the yacht might not be the ideal place for the beast. It reclines on the deck without much fuss, which is good, but it could also just as easily be mistaken for a pile of rope or something. So that’s bad. He can’t lose it prior to even using it in an act. 

 

Luckily there’s another place it could stay. Gob dials the penthouse. 

 

Lucille picks up on the fourth ring: “Gob? Is that you?” 

 

“Hey mom!” Gob jumps up from his seat. “So I got a hound for my latest illusion--” 

 

Lucille disconnects the line. She frowns at the phone. “I could have sworn I blocked his number.” Something crashes in the background. “Buster!! What on Earth--Buster!” 

 

After his mother’s rejection, which was nothing if not predictable, Gob is forced to consider other options. Namely, actually living with his new partner. He looks at the beast. It looks back at him. He looks at his handout.  

 

_ Step Four: Now that your buddy is all settled in… _

 

Gob needs to get this thing out of his house. Yacht. Whatever. 

 

He can’t think with it just looking at him. It’s giving off unsettling vibes. It’s messing with his magic mojo. The weird style of its hair is disturbingly reminiscent of the time Tobias got hair plugs. It’s not okay. 

 

Gob pulls on the matching jacket to his blue velour track pants. “At least one of us will look presentable,” he tells the hound. It blinks sleepily at him as he once again attaches the lead to its collar. 

 

And thus, having another living creature in his care for less than three hours, Gob decides that he is no longer able to tolerate it, and therefore seeks to change, at the very least, its outward appearance. 

 

There’s two pet salons within walking (read: segway riding) distance: K-9 Kuts and Doggy Style. 

 

Now, Gob doesn’t know anything about either salon, and while another person might pause for a moment, do a little bit of research, read a yelp review or two, that is not Gob’s style. Gob is a man of romance, a man of action, a man of delight and mystery. Yelp reviews are not written for people such as him. He considers briefly his options, and makes his way to K-9 Kuts. When faced with the establishment's name on the storefront, however, Gob experiences what can only be described as a startling flashback to the untimely end of his former four-legged friend. (Who was more of a prop than a friend. But their time together ended rather messily all the same). 

 

Given his history with dogs, Gob thinks it better to avoid K-9 Kuts. 

 

Thus, he finds himself halting his segway on the welcoming doorstep of Doggy Style. The logo emblazoned on the glass door is followed by the catching tagline: ‘We Take All Kinds--and We’re Never Too Ruff!’ Gob considers the massive wooly exterior of his hound and thinks that he’s come to the right place. 

 

He’s greeted at the front desk by a bored looking clerk. “Hi, welcome in, did you have an appointment?” 

 

Gob sets his hound down on the counter, as though it is a furry designer handbag rather than an animal. The hound offers little resistance, but settles on the counter with a subdued shuffle. “No..” Gob answers. “This is my first time trying Doggy Style.” 

 

The guy nods. He reaches under the front desk to get the preliminary paperwork. “So we have several options,” he drones, explaining the dog grooming services available. “What exactly were you looking for today?”

 

Gob hazards a glance at his guide. He’s pretty much mastered the first part so he flips to the next page. 

 

**Part Two: Realizing Each Other’s Needs**

 

_ Step Six: Your new buddy is going to need a lot more than just love! From food to toys, to…. _

 

Yadda, yadda, Gob knows all that. He skims the page. 

 

_ Step Seven: Cleaning up after your pet is something that will become a part of your daily routine. Don’t think you need expensive grooming services---instead take this opportunity to really get some quality bonding time in with... _

 

“Maybe you’d be interested in our most popular package: The Rubdown?” the clerk points to a explanation of the service on a poster near the front desk. 

 

“Hm.” Gob reads it. “I wonder…” 

 

A crack splits the air----a flash of light. Smoke follows in its wake. “Did someone say... _ Wonder?”  _

 

And there, right in the middle of Doggy Style, is the infamous, the unknowable, the mystic, the Wonder-ful---Tony Wonder himself. 

 

Whether it is the pungent odor of Tony’s cologne mixed with dog piss, or the gravity of the situation (seeing Tony Wonder!!), Gob is suddenly feeling a little lightheaded. 

 

“Tony!” he shouts. “Man, this guy, can you believe it,” he grins at the front-desk guy. 

 

The clerk is looking with eyebrows raised in mild concern at the waiting room sofa out of which Tony has just burst. 

 

“Gob! Man! It’s so great to see you!” 

 

“Really? I mean, yeah! Yeah! It’s great to see you too!” Gob doesn’t know if he should shake Tony’s hand or go in for one of those bro-hugs or maybe magicians could start a thing where they, like, kiss each other on the cheek in greeting? Is that too French? He’ll bring it up at the next Magician’s Alliance Meeting. 

 

(Gob is not invited to the next Magician Alliance Meeting). 

 

(He will probably still attend). 

 

Gob doesn’t go in for a cheek kiss or a bro-hug or a handshake, although he does twitch a little.

 

“So what brings you to this fine  _ salon _ ?” Tony asks. He pronounces the word salon in a long drawl, emphasis on the “o” like he’s making fun of it for being fancy. 

 

Gob titters in response, finding this pronunciation utterly charming. He waves his hand. “Oh you know,” he answers, indicating a vague idea that he is naturally inclined towards all the enthralling places where Tony might be present. (Gob has completely and utterly forgotten his reason for being in the shop: His dog. Hound). 

 

Tony’s mouth works in confusion, but he doesn’t question Gob’s less than gratifying response. “Well, I’m here because this is the best place in town for a little touch up.” He leans forward drawing Gob close with a couple of fingers. He whispers in Gob’s ear, close enough that Gob can feel the heat of his breath against his neck. “Magnetic Magenta. This is the only place that stocks it.” 

 

He draws back, hand still heavy on Gob’s shoulder, eyebrows raised in a gentle tease. “Trade secret. I’m trusting you not to tell anyone…” 

 

Gob pinches his fingers together and mimes zipping his mouth shut, eyes crinkled in a smile as he tosses away the imaginary key. 

 

Tony laughs. 

 

A beat of awkward silence. 

 

“No seriously, it looks great though.” Gob tells him. He motions to the general vicinity of the ‘W’ shaped soul patch adorning Tony’s chin. It’s definitely been dyed Magnetic Magenta. 

 

Tony smiles like he doesn’t mean to: close lipped and obviously pleased. “Thanks.” He shrugs. “I mean, it’s a little more expensive, but. I think he’s worth it.” 

 

A tiny, pink-haired monkey scampers up Tony’s immaculately pressed pant leg. It rests on his shoulders, tiny hands clinging to the crunchy gelled tips of his hair. 

 

Not a pink-haired monkey. A Magnetic Magenta monkey. 

 

Gob has a moment of panic that he might have accidentally offended Tony at not realizing that he was talking about his monkey and not his soul patch. He practically shouts: “He looks great!” 

 

“Thanks.” 

 

“No really,” Gob continues. “Just look at him. Wow! That color.” He shakes his head. “What a look for the little guy.” 

 

“Harry.” 

 

“Yeah, he is.” Gob replies, eager to agree. 

 

“Gob---that’s his name.” 

 

Gob is touched that Tony would name such an important part of his act after him. Bolstered by this, he decides to take the next step in their relationship---as fellow magicians of course. 

 

If only he knew how to do it. 

 

His eyes float down to the paper rolled in his hand. He smooths them out, subtly reading the next bit, hoping for a little guidance. 

 

_ Step Eight: Establish good habits early on. Your new friend will be positively impacted by a set routine.  _

 

A routine? 

 

Now that’s an idea. 

 

Gob knows just the illusion he can use. He takes out a deck of cards out of the jumpsuit jacket’s inner zipped pocket. 

 

Tony raises an eyebrow in interest. 

 

Gob shoots him a smirk, shuffling the cards expertly. He slides one out with a flourish, flipping the card over for a moment, the king of heart’s surface smooth between the pads of his thumb and index finger. He tucks it into the deck, snapping the cards back in place. 

 

The clerk leans forward on the counter, attention rapt. Gob (the monkey) pauses as well, his little pink face trained on Gob’s (the man’s) hands. 

 

Gob sets the deck flat in his hand, faces down. He turns over his other hand, it’s empty, wrist visible. With a snap, he draws the first card off the top of the deck. The king of hearts. 

 

“Holy shit,” the clerk says. 

 

“It’s your card,” Gob says, handing the card to Tony. The face is marred by the unmistakable scrawl of a sharpie, “but it has my number on it.  _ Wonder  _ how that happened…” 

 

Tony’s face lights up. “Smooth, my friend. Very smooth. Nice.” He accepts the card, tucking it into the breast pocket of his magenta button up. 

 

Gob beams. He’s been practicing that one for a long time. And Tony thought it was smooth! 

 

“Guess that means that I should give you mine, huh?” Tony’s teeth catch his bottom lip and he raises his eyebrows in a rowdy grin. 

 

Gob has the intrusive thought that Tony is probably the sexiest man he’s ever encountered. As a fellow magician. Of course. 

 

“I mean--” Gob scoffs, one hand going up to run a hand through his hair, before he realizes that looks pretty lame and so he stops halfway and instead puts his hand on his hip. He tries to lean against the nearest display of dog treats but it almost topples over, so he stands back up. “If you want.” 

 

Tony turns to grab a pen from the register. But he stops. He clutches one hand to his stomach, a low groan of pain, escaping his mouth. 

 

“Sir?!” the clerk has one hand on the phone. “Sir? Are you alright??? I can call 911!” 

 

“No---I’m---” Tony doubles over, crying out. “Ghhhaaaaaaa!!” 

 

Gob steps forward, hand outstretched, but then Tony stands upright. He draws his hand away from his stomach, offering Gob a slip of paper held between his index and middle finger. 

 

“Looks like it was just a case of  _ digit-itis. _ ” Tony says, giving Gob his number. 

 

“Wow,” Gob breathes, accepting the slip. “That was---” 

 

“Wow.” The clerk says, significantly less impressed. 

 

“Anyways, me and Harry here need to get going,” Tony says, giving Gob a little smile, the color still high in his cheeks from his outburst. “But, call me, alright?” 

 

Gob nods. He departs from Doggy Style feeling perfectly refreshed. 

 

He also leaves Doggy Style without his dog. 

 

Hound.  

 

**Part Three: Your Life Together**

 

_ Step Ten: Expect the unexpected....  _

 

Gob adjusts the blazer, pulling it over his shoulders. He keeps looking at the phone. Not expecting it to ring. Not expecting that at all. 

 

(Actually he was  _ hoping _ it would ring, and had been since leaving the dog grooming salon earlier in the week. But as of yet, it had not. And thus, per the guide, he was not expecting it). 

 

He was getting ready to go out. Not that he really had any friends with whom to go out with, but. His father was in prison and his mother had his number blocked and Buster wasn’t exactly a riveting conversation partner and Lindsay was busy and Michael had already sent him home once today. So he might as well go out. 

 

Gob fixes himself a pre-drink drink and perches on one end of the bunk aboard the family yacht. “To another successful Thirsty Thursday,” he salutes to the mirror, taking a sip. 

 

(It’s actually Wednesday but Gob’s revolving door of pharmaceuticals and top shelf liquor make remembering the days of the week an interesting challenge.) 

 

_ Step Eleven: Be open to change….  _

 

His phone rings. Gob looks at the device in confusion. The jingle continues, echoing throughout the yacht cabin. 

 

It’s Tony. 

 

Gob rushes over to the mirror to check his teeth before he picks up the phone. This makes no sense, but he does it anyways. 

 

“Hi,” He finally picks up, sounding only a little out of breath. 

 

“Hey there. It’s Tony.” 

 

“Tony! It’s Gob!” Gob fails to realize that he probably already knows who’s number he’s dialed. “I wasn’t expecting your call.” 

 

“Yeah? Not a good time?” Tony sounds a little hesitant. 

 

“Oh no!” Gob shrugs off the blazer, setting his drink down on the bedside table. “No it’s actually a great time!” 

 

It couldn’t have been a more perfect time. Gob grabs his deck of cards, now short one king, and shuffles them, holding the phone with his shoulder. He kicks off his shoes, getting comfortable. He practices a flourish for no one but himself, hands steady, the conversation developing into something easy. When he and Tony accidentally start talking at the same time, Tony hums a laugh in his ear that makes Gob forget his nerves. 

 

_ Step Twelve: Enjoy the remarkable affection of your newfound companion. _

 

***

**Author's Note:**

> the dog’s name is David Barkkerfield and he gets adopted into a loving home and does not ever get sawed in half, if you were wondering 
> 
> This is my first time writing for the AD fandom, so tbh I’m really nervous about their voices and characterization and such. But I did my best! This fic was written wholly as a gift for @pk4n~ hope u enjoyed sis! 
> 
> Thank you for reading!! hit me up with a comment or kudos if you feel like it! Find me on twitter @jacqulinetan if ya feel inclined


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